MICHAEL

  THE STREETS OF ASTORIS buzzed alive with sound.

  Market stalls lined the stone alleys like veins, pulsing with the energy of trade and devotion. Spices burned in the air—cumin, saffron, something bitter and holy. The crowd moved with purpose, haggling, praying, praising. Mooncloth banners fluttered above, etched with symbols of the lunar god. Some painted, some stitched, some burned into the fabric with loving obsession.

  Big Mike kept to the shadowed edges, hood up, steps measured.

  He moved like someone with nowhere to be and no time to get there. It was a trick he’d learned long ago, how to vanish by walking openly. But it didn’t stop the tickle at the back of his skull. That sharp, needling sense. He was being followed.

  Of course he was.

  Two of them. Maybe three. They kept their distance. Too far to stab, too close to ignore. Amateurs, but cautious. Overmen or ordinary men, he couldn’t tell yet.

  He led them through the spice stalls, past a man singing prayers into a brass horn, past a boy selling silver water in clay cups. He didn’t run. He didn’t need to.

  It wasn’t him who was the prey, but they did not know it yet.

  The alley came up like a missing piece of the puzzle. Narrow. Quiet. A curve to the left, blind to the crowd.

  Big Mike turned in and let the crowd swallow his scent. He walked halfway down, then stepped into a crooked doorway and vanished.

  He waited. Five breaths.

  Then came the first one. A soft scuffle. Quick feet. Not expecting a trap.

  Mike struck hard and fast, elbow to the throat, twist, silence. The second one barely had time to register before Mike took him down too, slamming him into the wall with a grunt and a dull crack.

  A third one showed up and froze straight away. Hands lifted slowly in surrender.

  “Come here,” Mike ordered.

  The man obeyed, stiff-legged. His dark robe was unmarked, like the others’. Temple guards and city enforcers wore similar garb, but these were stripped of symbols, stripped of faith. Clothes meant for blending in, not representing authority.

  The man stepped close. He was almost as tall as Mike. Almost. But his hands trembled, his jaw clenched in fear. He’d seen what happened to the others. He wasn’t going to try anything.

  “Show me your wrist,” Mike said.

  “What?” The man blinked, confused. He started to raise his left hand.

  Mike grabbed the right one instead, twisting it palm-up.

  “This one,” he growled.

  There it was, just above the vein. Stamped into the skin in tiny raised code: identity script. Overman. Kin.

  Mike stared at the mark for a second too long, jaw tightening.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Where’s the girl?” he asked, voice flat as steel.

  “What girl?” The man winced.

  Mike leaned in, pressure building through his grip.

  “The one Gabe brought here.”

  That struck home. The man’s eyes widened. Alarm bloomed, followed by something else—reverence. As if the names alone carried sacred weight.

  “They’re in the temple,” he rasped. “She’s… performing. For the new moon. With him.”

  “Thank you,” Mike said, and drove a quick, clean punch into the soft spot between jaw and ear. The man dropped, silent before he hit the ground.

  Mike moved fast.

  Stripped the robe, tore off the sash, slipped it over his own gear. He tied the belt in the same spiral knot same as the men on the ground. Just another servant of the sanctum.

  He stepped out of the alley and let the crowd swallow him.

  ***

  MIKE STOOD TALL, fists at his sides. He couldn’t show how much he hated what he saw when he stepped into the room.

  Gabe was already there, off to the side, hands clasped behind his back like some smug priest before a sermon. He didn’t look at Mike. Of course he didn’t. But his stillness was loud enough.

  Behind the long, elevated table sat the Elders, draped in their ceremonial silks, resembling one of those old-world paintings. Maria, as always, sat at the centre. She hadn’t said a word. None of them had. Yet the air already felt heavy with judgement.

  Mike wasn’t sure what was worse, the waiting, or the thoughts spiralling behind his eyes. And Gabe. Why was he here? Were they planning to replace him again? First Luc. Now him?

  Bringing Erick to the Moon had been a mistake. He could admit that now. But at the time, it felt necessary.

  Erick had become his friend, even though they’d been warned not to grow attached to anyone on Earth. But Mike had made a choice. He chose friendship.

  But after all why would they punish him? It was Luc who betrayed first. And not only betrayed. Luc went full heretic. From a god to fallen angel.

  “We were going to punish you,” Maria said at last, her voice smooth as ever, slicing through the silence like a scalpel. “But we decided not to.”

  Relief flooded Mike’s chest. He wanted to ask about Erick, but Maria seemed to read his mind.

  “Don’t worry about your little friend,” she said. “He’ll be fine. Mostly. The surgery was successful.”

  “And no,” she added, her gaze flicking toward Gabe, “you don’t need to worry about Gabriel here. He’s not here to take your position. Because that position no longer exists.”

  Mike blinked.

  “So… when am I going back there?”

  “You’re not.”

  ***

  THERE SHE WAS. Sitting on a throne. So close, yet impossibly far. Bathed in the light of setting sun. Awaiting the silver gloom of a new moon.

  Her skin gleamed. Rich and golden like polished chestnut, oiled with the famous temple balms. It caught the firelight like silk, like memory. Mike knew, had he been born on Earth, his would’ve looked the same. Maybe even deeper in shade.

  That thought always gnawed at him. Of course it did. He’d never belonged. Too pale for the Svarts. Too svart for the Nordlings.

  “We pray today,” one of the priests intoned, arms lifted toward the open sky. His voice echoed beneath the stone arches, carried on incense and expectation. “We pray to our one and only true god. And we celebrate not only the new moon, but the gift we have received.”

  A low murmur of reverence passed through the crowd.

  “The prophets were right. The angel has brought us a new beginning. A holy virgin who carries the son of the true god. Praised be his name!”

  The worshippers erupted in joy. Voices rose, hands reached toward the heavens. The scent of burning myrrh filled the air.

  Too many dark robes in the crowd. City guards, temple enforcers. More than Mike had counted on. And among them, too close to the throne where Amaia sat like a relic carved in beauty and silence… was Gabe.

  Maybe it was the sight of him. Maybe it was something else. But in that moment, Mike decided he didn’t need a plan.

  These people believed in gods and angels, in divine signs and miracles. Well, he could be taken for one. Because he was one.

  Of course he was.

  Something more than an angel. A demon. And he moved like one.

  Whatever gear he’d stolen when he escaped Matt, whatever tech he had strapped to his body, he would use it all. No hesitation. No mercy. Let them watch. Let them see what angels kept hidden in their arsenal.

  The first thing he threw was a smoke bomb.

  The chamber erupted in confusion. Gray mist swallowed light, turned beauty into blur and order into chaos. But Mike’s visor cut through it cleanly. He saw everything. They could not. Not the worshippers, not the priests, not the guards. Not even Gabe.

  In the accompaniment of panic screams, Mike surged forward through the veil of smoke, pushing his way to the throne.